Stanley laughed, and shook his head. “I am the son of one of those princes, who govern in America under the name of ‘The sovereign people,’ but for further particulars I refer you to your friend, Mrs. Ingleby, for—” “_Parlez du diable_,” said a voice at the door, and in walked Catharine herself, followed by Ingleby, who having been forbidden to say a word, crossed the room, and meekly seated himself in a corner. “May I be allowed,” continued Catharine, “to ask what use was being made of my name, as I entered this room?” “Certainly,” replied Stanley. “Miss Somers has been affecting to doubt the respectability of my parentage—” “I!” exclaimed Ada, who scarcely knew whether he was in jest or earnest. “Can you deny it! when you began by accusing me of being a heathen, and ended by kindly suggesting that I might possibly be The Wandering Jew?” “To the point, Mr. Stanley, if you please,” said Catharine, with mock dignity. Stanley bowed submissively. “I was about to say then, that however well I may be known to your husband, _your_ knowledge of my name and station is, I believe, anterior even to his; I beg that you will now declare the same to this young lady, together with any incidents of my life which it may please you to reveal; and in the presence of her who is to be my judge, I fearlessly request that of my past deeds you will ‘nothing extenuate.’” Here was a beginning after Catharine’s own heart, but its effect was somewhat spoiled by Charles Ingleby, who called out familiarly from his corner: “Faith, Stanley, you run far more risk in Kate’s hands of having ‘much set down in malice.’” “Silence in the court, Mr. Ingleby!” cried his wife, trying very hard not to smile. “Oh! I am the court, am I?” persisted Charles, “then I can almost say with Louis the Fourteenth, ‘_L’état c’est moi._’” “Oh, Charles! I wish you would not interrupt me to show off your learning,” cried Catharine, who began to feel her comedy fast degenerating into farce; but determined to make a certain speech which she had prepared for the occasion, she quickly composed her features—compressed her lips, and thus began: “James Stanley! I do accuse you, in presence of these witnesses here assembled,” (here Charles muttered something about its being quite true that he was a host within himself, but Catharine went steadily on,) “I do accuse you of having basely insinuated yourself into the affections of this damsel, (Ada, be quiet) insomuch that she hath eyes for no one else—and this you have done under false colors and a false name. Therefore, I here pronounce you traitor and impostor, and denounce you to the said damsel by the name you blush to bear—the infamous name of James Darrington!”